


NQR

by bigblueboxat221b



Series: Facebook Prompts [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Explicit Sexual Content, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John Watson's Reichenbach Feels, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach, Reichenbach Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 16:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10880286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: John does not deal well with Sherlock's absence after Reichenbach.





	NQR

**Author's Note:**

> From a facebook prompt (in the notes at the end; spoilers, sweetie). Thanks to [LadyTuesday](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_and_Vanilla/pseuds/Lavender_and_Vanilla).
> 
> I've only added tags for the trigger-type subjects, lest I spoil the story.
> 
> Be kind to yourself and consider if this is the right fic for you. x

John fell forward, panting, his forehead pressing against the rough wet stone of the building. He’d come, but it was hardly earth shattering; it never was, but he chased it anyway. Pulling away from the figure in front of him, John tucked himself away, zipping up his trousers without looking. The last thing he needed was to see the curly dark hair and pale face kneeling at his feet. He half turned away, clearing his throat. The other man stood, crassly wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, eyebrows raised in a silent question.

“Thanks.” John said shortly, before hurrying out of the filthy alley. The shame and sorrow were already rising in him and he made it only two blocks before he was ducking into another alleyway, this time to empty his stomach of the cheap beer he’d drunk that night. In an unconscious imitation of the nameless young man John wiped the back of his hand shakily across his mouth, silently cursing himself. When would he learn? Sherlock was gone, and this never made him feel any better about it. He stumbled towards the main road, hoping for a cab.

 

The first time had been a fluke; John had been drunk already. When he’d been politely asked to leave the pub, he’d stumbled around until a less discerning bouncer had allowed him into a bar. It wasn’t until he felt a decidedly male hand on his arse that John had registered that it was a gay bar. The irony of that had not escaped him, and he’d ordered a beer anyway. Sitting at the bar and people watching, a young man had caught his eye – tall and slim, dark mop of hair framing a pale face. From across a dark room with more beer than necessary clouding his vision, it could easily have been Sherlock. John had stalked him across the bar, finally catching his eye with a smouldering look that said plainly, “Let’s fuck.” They made their way to a dark corner, John taking control without so much as speaking to him. Up close, the man was less like Sherlock than the superficial similarity would suggest; the eyes were wrong, and he lacked the arrogant self-assurance. In this heartbroken moment, though, John didn’t care, desperate for even this shadow of Sherlock in his life. He shoved against the body, pressing it against the wall _too soft, too submissive, wrong wrong wrong_. Growling in frustration, John ran his fingers through the dark curls, tugging hard until he gasped, allowing John’s tongue to ravish his mouth. It was obviously working for the other man, because he abruptly dropped to his knees, looking to make eye contact as he ran his mouth over the bulge in John’s trousers. Once it was obvious what he was offering, John nodded and closed his eyes, his mind shoving all the _not Sherlock_ clues away as he concentrated on the warm hot mouth around his cock. He summoned all the memories he could of Sherlock that would help him furnish the faux reality of it being him. The ‘oh’ that meant he’d made a breakthrough was the best – the sound; the shape of that mouth as he held it a beat longer than necessary, motor cortex lagging behind; the brightness in his eyes as he bounced around, connecting the dots for the lesser mortals.

With a grunt, John came hard, without warning. Pretty poor manners, he thought fuzzily, but no part of him cared. Not like it was Sherlock, his brain reminded him. He stood blankly for a moment as the other body rose and said something that sounded like an offer. John felt the air on his still exposed prick and tucked himself away automatically, not registering the confused and now annoyed face in front of him. He turned without speaking and left, barely making it out the door before he was vomiting against the wall, the not-quite Sherlock still in his memory making his stomach twist violently. Finally empty, his stomach stopped heaving enough for him to hail a cab and stagger back to Harry’s place.

 

By the time John made it home, it was almost dawn. ‘Home’ was a fluid term, he’d learned; really, it meant wherever he was crashing lately. He no longer worked, having figured out that his bank balance wasn’t going to change no matter what he did – bloody Mycroft – so he slept the day away instead, saving his waking hours for the darkness.

 

After that first night, John had worked his way through most of the gay bars in London, searching for a very specific type, sometimes for a quick blow job in the alleyway; occasionally, if the eyes were closer or the attitude was right, for a fuck at their place. He’d become less picky about the physical details now; it was more about the attitude, or a look in the eyes; the way the body leaned against a bar or dismissed unwanted attention. Some things were a given, like the long dark hair, pale skin, and general body shape. Others were more flexible – some had straighter hair, others eyes like melted chocolate; one arrogant young man had clearly had at least one grandparent from Asia. That dismissive hand flick had been so like Sherlock that John’s ensuing erection had been insistent and fierce, leading John to take him against the wall outside the bar, hard and fast. When they’d been done, he’d wanted to reciprocate, but the sight of his almond eyes and the nondescript cheekbones had made John feel ill. He’d left without a word as usual, a hoarse shout of, “asshole!” following him out of the alleyway.

 

Stumbling out of bed, too few hours’ sleep leaving his eyes grainy, today seemed different, somehow. It took John a while to figure out why – he was crashing at Mike’s sister’s place while she was in Paris, and nothing was familiar – but when his bleary eyes saw the calendar, the date jerked him out of his apathy. One year. It had been one year today since…it happened. And what had he done with all that time? John thought to himself, sinking into the chair behind him. Shagged just about every willing man in London that looked even vaguely like Sherlock. It hadn’t made a lick of difference, not that anything would.

John suddenly had a strong urge to visit Baker Street, a place he’d not been in, well, a year, now. Without thinking too hard, he stood up, collected his coat and keys and walked out, catching a cab and saying that still familiar phrase, “221b Baker Street.” The streets passed by in a blur, and in a few moments he was there, staring at the knocker and wondering if it was ever crooked anymore. Taking a deep, shaking breath, John turned his key and marched up the stairs, grateful that Mrs. Hudson was clearly not at home. He crossed the threshold and froze, heart skittering as he surveyed the room.

Everything was exactly as they had left it. The skull was still there, both chairs sat as though waiting for him to make a pot of tea and stoke the fire. Forcing his legs to move, John walked further into the room. The kitchen looked the same but different – all Sherlock’s equipment was still there, but it was clean, and a quick check in the fridge told the same story – empty, cold and clean. Poor soul, whomever did that, John thought wryly. He stood next to the fridge, staring blankly at the closed door to Sherlock’s bedroom. In for a penny, he thought, and slowly turned the doorhandle, hinges creaking a little as the door swung open.

Like the rest of the flat, this space was cleaner, and yet exactly the same. John leaned against the wall, looking around the room, eyes watery. He could have ducked out to harass Lestrade, John thought irrationally, nothing here would tell you that he’s gone forever. In a sudden fit of anger, John tugged at the periodic table of the elements behind him, tearing it and throwing it to the floor. Before his guilt could overcome him, something on the wall caught his eye. Behind the poster, a tiny recessed shelf had been created. Two plastic phials stood neatly inside, the space exactly the right size to hold them. John reached his hand out to take one, looking at the label in a daze.

“Disulfiram.” John whispered. “For cocaine addiction.” The two phials were identical, save that one was half empty. Sherlock had been taking these pills. These pills, designed to help prevent addicts from relapsing. How could John not know about this? Sherlock’s words echoed in his ears, “Alone protects me.” He’d never trusted John, not enough to tell him this biggest of secrets. Not enough to share that he was trying to stay clean, that he clearly valued their life together. As John stared blankly at the phial in his hand, his head began to pound. All the sorrow, the frustration the anger bubbled up in him. Rather than push it down as he did, as he always did, this time he embraced it. His medical training was telling him all about Disulfiram, about what it would do to someone who’d been drinking as much as he had today. Nobody knew he was here; even Mrs. Hudson hadn’t noticed his entrance, if she was even home. It would hurt, of that he was sure; but what else did he deserve, after his lack of faith in Sherlock while he was alive, and lack of fidelity after he’d died? A sob rose in his throat at the thought of all the things that might have been, had he been different, had Sherlock been different. Thumbing the lid off, John vaguely heard the plastic hit the floor and roll away. He sat down hard on the bed, tears running down his face as he smiled grimly to himself. At last, he’d see the real Sherlock again, young and whole. If only his God in heaven had that in store, he would be a happy man.

**Author's Note:**

> I intended this to be a cracky fun piece but it's ended up darker than I expected - can't believe I had to put a MCD Archive Warning up (first time ever).
> 
> Prompt from LadyTuesday: Naughty Johnlock headcanon: after Reichenbach, John went on a tear through several gay bars in London and had a string of random one-night stands with men who looked like Sherlock.
> 
> See how crack-y it could have been? And yet we ended up here. I hope everyone's okay, that was intense.
> 
> <3


End file.
